


Imagine Being Loved By Me

by TheDayWillEnd



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Pining, is that rating correct? who knows, this is kind of garbage, unbetaed, vague mention of a random monster I picked
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:42:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27151969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDayWillEnd/pseuds/TheDayWillEnd
Summary: Geralt is in love with Jaskier. Despite how well Jaskier takes care of him, and how long he’s stayed by Geralt’s side, the Witcher remains stubbornly unaware that Jaskier loves him back. Lucky for him, Jaskier can literally see the love in his eyes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg - Relationship
Comments: 11
Kudos: 263
Collections: The Witcher





	Imagine Being Loved By Me

**Author's Note:**

> This one is kind of bad, but if I don't post something now, I'll probably never post again, so I hope y'all enjoy.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own these characters

When Geralt first started noticing Jaskier staring at him, he thought nothing of it. It was infrequent, and the bard was quick to turn away whenever Geralt caught him. As time went on though, it didn’t stop. It in fact picked up, especially during those stretches of road and forest in between villages and cities which left them with no company but each other. Jaskier stared through sun and rain, and even before they went to sleep. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of these glances, and the not knowing irritated him. So on their way to the nearest village that Jaskier had insisted upon stopping at, he simply asked him outright.

“Why do you stare at me so much?”

“Why do I… Oh! Yes. That...” Jaskier says stallingly. He’s silent for a moment, staring out into the dirt path before them, a first for the loquacious man.

“Jaskier.”

“Well, you know I’m not entirely human.”

“Yes?” Geralt had learned of Jaskier’s Fae origins a few years back, and it hadn’t been an issue. In fact, he could feel the glamour which he had never seen Jaskier without shielding his true form right now. Now he wondered what Jaskier hadn’t disclosed.

“I can sort of… see emotions. In the eyes of others. I’ve never had to worry about how someone is feeling, because I’ve always just been able to look into their eyes and know.” His feet kicked lightly at the dirt, small clouds of dust moving around his fine leather boots.

Geralt froze in his saddle, barely hearing the rest of what Jaskier was saying.

“You however, are not one for eye contact. It’s more of a guessing game with you. I suppose that’s why I stare so much. I can catch sometimes when you’re annoyed. Oh! Or angry! That’s all I usually see… ” he trailed off nervously at the lack of response.

Geralt, carefully facing away, was too busy in his head to reply. The steady trot of Roach kept him in a relative calm. He was thinking about many things all at once, including riding away on Roach as fast as possible. The most prominent thought was what Jaskier might discover just by looking into his eyes. He had played it well so far, showing no sign of it, even going as far as to avoid thinking of it. The truth was, he had fallen in love with Jaskier, deeply, and was doing his best to ignore it. Now he was glad for his evasion measures against such thoughts. If Jaskier knew, surely he’d leave. And loath as Geralt was to admit it, he needed Jaskier near him, even if only as a friend.

“Umm, Geralt? Is that alright? Are you alright?”

“Hmm? Yes. But mind your own business, bard. Quit trying to peek where you aren’t welcome.” If Jaskier were to look now, he’d learn everything Geralt was trying to keep to himself. But it seemed that despite his naturally prying nature, he wasn’t going to pester Geralt about this.

“Oh! Certainly, I won’t try to look anymore. I’m so used to knowing, I suppose I didn’t think about how you may not like it. Apologies.”

Geralt grunted affirmatively before Jaskier continued on rambling, and kept his eyes away from the bard’s face. Hopefully the next village would have something for him to kill, something that would get him away from the inquisitive bard for a while.

The thought of getting there and putting some distance between them makes him urge Roach into a quick trot. He ignored the sounds of Jaskier's protests and shoes slapping against the road.

* * *

The village had been quite eager to employ his services, and he could see why. When Geralt finally leaves the graveyard, he’s covered in the insides of the graveir that he’s slain. The hulking ghoul-like creature had been in the middle of a feeding, snapping the bones of an unearthed corpse and devouring the rancid marrow like a fine delicacy. It had not been pleased with Geralt’s interruption, and the fight had been especially harsh, and especially messy. Hence the repugnant matter splattered heavily across his skin and armour, covering his swords along with the necrophage oil. He cleaned those off the best he could, but the armour would have to wait until he was in his room.

The walk back to the inn was a dark and silent one, but blessedly short. He makes sure to stop at the stables where he had put Roach before he goes in. She was just the same as Geralt left her, though he’d doubted before he left that anyone would be brave enough to approach the irritable mare. When he enters through the worn doors of the inn, Jaskier, who had stayed behind this time, was not at the forefront performing his songs for the remaining dwellers. _A shame_ , he thinks distantly, though with no small amount of self disdain. The bard's voice, though Geralt would never admit it, was powerful and sweet. His mind drags him then to where else Jaskier could be. With a woman perhaps, putting his hands on the expanse of her soft, unscarred skin. He wishes, distantly, that Jaskier would put hands upon him like that.

That, however, was not something he should be even remotely thinking of, especially given what he’d learned about Jaskier. He’d done his damnedest to not even look at the bard, though he could tell Jaskier was still curious, and perhaps a bit hurt by his distant demeanor. _It doesn’t matter_ , he told himself. He turned his mind to his contract. The fight with the Graveir, though not as time consuming as some fights, was certainly bloodier. Geralt was beginning to itch at the feel of the foul blood drying on his face. He wanted a fucking bath, more than he dreaded being in a confined space with Jaskier. He wanted to get away from the dwelling eyes of the leftover patrons. They stare at him with hatred and fear, and he doesn’t want to provoke them into trying to make him leave. They likely would have, had the potions he had taken not mostly left his system before he arrived back. Before he can go upstairs though, the inn owner calls him over.

“Is it dealt with then?”

“Yes.” He brings out the few long stained teeth he had pulled from the thing as proof.

“You can collect your coin from the Lord Avellen in the morning, Witcher. He’ll be sleeping now.” He hears the unspoken words there. _You dare not wake him now. He’ll not take kindly to a Witcher waking him_. The Lord had called on him to deal with the problem, but he certainly didn’t want to deal with Geralt more than was absolutely necessary. Business as usual. He turns without another word, avoiding the scornful eyes following him.

He climbs the creaky wooden steps up to the room he shares with Jaskier. The door opens with a rough squeak, and Geralt steps inside. Jaskier is sitting on the bed in his breeches and a white linen shirt, his baby blue day clothes done away with. He’s pondering over a piece of paper, pen in hand, and looks pleased to see him. Geralt takes notice of a few things. On the bed are laid out a clean shirt, and a loose pair of pants that looked soft. On the bedside table, a plate of bread and hearty stew. Over, behind the beige folding screen, steam rises from what has to be a fresh, hopefully hot bath. He feels a sort of relief that Jaskier has been here, waiting for him. Jaskier speaks up before he can examine or think much else.

“Geralt! I assume by the blood and stench you killed the Gravel then?”

“Graveir,” he corrects, eyes focused on the bath.

“Right, Graveir. What a mess you are! Come now, into the water with you,” he says, approaching Geralt and tugging at the straps of his armor with clean, lovely hands. He pushes that unhelpful observation away, focusing on his annoyance. Jaskier was difficult enough to avoid at the best of times, and wanting him close made it harder for Geralt to keep his distance.

“I’m not an invalid, Jaskier. I can do it fine myself.” He doesn’t bother to stop him, though. Never does. He’d never say it outloud, but he gets an indescribable feeling, something peaceful when Jaskier helps him take off his armour. A longing.

“You certainly can. That doesn’t mean you should, my dear Witcher. Let me help you,” he wheedles gently.

“Hmm.” It’s a risk, but he can never deny him. He does his best not to think of the reason why he can’t deny Jaskier anything anymore. His heart still beats just a little faster than usual.

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

He’s quickly freed from his armour, which Jaskier carefully leans up against the wall, near his lute case. He’ll scrub the mess off of it later, when he’s rested a bit. For now he allows Jaskier to lead him behind the folding screen and strip him of the rest of his clothes. He lets his own eyes meet Jaskier’s cornflower blue eyes for just a moment. They glow brightly in the low lighting of their room. Impossibly so, but that’s just another thing that marks the bard as Fae. Geralt finds that he likes that shine, far better than he likes his own monstrous yellow eyes.

He begins to feel a discomfort, like a tingling in his chest which he can’t rid himself of, so he averts his gaze from Jaskier’s beautiful eyes quickly. He’s done as we said he would, and stopped looking for Geralt’s emotions, but accidents can happen. It’s essential to be vigilant, he knows. He puts all his focus from there towards getting into the steaming tub, muscles relaxing under the soothing heat of the water. He barely holds back a groan of pleasure. That would be far too embarrassing, and he’d never hear the end of it. His eyes fall closed, and he feels safe with Jaskier, if only for the moment

Jaskier makes him sit straight up, and gets to work with the plain soap provided by the inn, scrubbing down well and truly everywhere. He brooks no complaints from Geralt as he does his work, even though he can surely hear the audible grinding of teeth. Geralt lets him get away with such touches, telling himself that it’s nice to be clean, and that the hands against his scarred skin do not do anything for him. He does _not_ want more. But his heart is beating at a quicker pace than usual, not from nerves, and his cock nearly hardens in the tub. Sex between them wasn’t likely to happen though.

Jaskier was... Jaskier. And Geralt was a Witcher. It _couldn’t_ happen. It’s the whole reason he goes to such lengths to hide his true feelings from Jaskier. He forces himself to calm down, heart rate dropping back to its typical slow beat.

Jaskier is done with scrubbing him almost as quickly as he started, efficient hands urging him to lie back. He settles back against the edge of the tub then, and almost immediately feels Jaskier’s hands once again going to work, this time on detangling Geralt’s hair. He doesn’t bother to protest again— there’s no stopping the bard now. He just keeps his eyes closed and lets himself feel Jaskier’s hands moving with purpose.

Jaskier asks him a million nonsensical questions about the Graveir contract as he does so, and Geralt replies with grunts and typical monosyllabic language. It goes as usual: Geralt refuses to give much detail, Jaskier complains lightly, claiming that he ‘can’t possibly write a masterpiece with such vague details, Geralt!’ He opens his eyes for but a moment to glare in the general direction of the bard, and finally, he gives in, his annoyed and melodramatic sighs paving the way to blessed silence.

He catches the scent of the rose and lavender oil which Jaskier seems to favour so much, and then feels his fingers working it through Geralt’s hair and against his scalp, slowly, and with gentle movements. The scent doesn’t bother him so much; it’s not too heavy, and it smells like Jaskier does. Geralt inhales as subtly as he can.

He pulls his thoughts away from Jaskier’s (not at all pleasing) scent, and brings his focus back to the heat of the water, his eyes still closed. He does something he rarely lets himself do: he falls deeply into his own thoughts, the sort that he doesn’t tend to allow. He’s safe here, in the water, eyes closed. Jaskier won’t see anything Geralt doesn’t allow. The risk is minimal.

He thinks of places he yearns for, and people he wishes he could see again. He thinks of the things he can’t have, the feeling of soft skin against his, and blue eyes which look at him with no fear or disgust. Occasionally, he even thinks of Yennefer, though that ship has long since sailed. She wouldn’t have him anymore, and for good reason. He’s rather certain now that he doesn’t want her anymore either. His thoughts are heavily occupied with someone else.

Still, even in the safe corners of his mind, he does his best to never think of that which he had realized, and kept hidden. He knew that he was in love with Jaskier. It was ridiculous, implausible, foolish, and all the other hundreds of words that Jaskier would likely be able to think up. The bard, however kind, couldn’t feel that way about him. It had taken him by surprise, his love for this man, but as soon as he knew, he also knew it could never happen. No matter how charming, and kind, and beautiful Jaskier was.

Simply put, it wouldn’t be practical to love him, this unusual man who loved nearly everyone he laid eyes on. Why would Jaskier ever choose him when he could have anyone? Why would he choose Geralt, rough, and scarred, and just not good enough for the singer?

So he keeps his love buried deep, far away from where it will ruin all that he has with Jaskier. Even if all he has is a friendship, when he almost desperately wants more. When he so often avoids thoughts of what it may be like to be loved by Jaskier, with his pleasant words and delicate face.

He does this because he knows his mind is truly the only place that he can allow himself to drift. He doesn’t have to worry here. The downside comes when he opens his eyes. And he must always open his eyes, eventually.

When he does, Jaskier is leaning over him, strange eyes boring right back into his, more intense than before. Like he’s searching for something in Geralt’s mind. Geralt jerks back, nearly hitting his forehead against Jaskier’s. He doesn’t break their eye contact though, the stubborn bard. He reaches a steady hand forward, giving him a chance to refuse. He does. He has to.

“Don’t,” he growls. The hand is pulled back immediately.

Jaskier is silent for but a moment before he asks, in a very small voice, “Is it because of what I am?”

Silence. He’s… stunned. The bard sounds upset, and not in his usual faux-irritated kind of way.

“Geralt, is it because I’m Fae?” Insistent, hurt colouring his tone.

He had been mildly surprised when he first found out exactly what Jaskier was. He had known, of course, that Jaskier was not the human he pretended to be, but he hadn’t felt the need to ask. There had been no need. No danger. In the end Jaskier had told Geralt himself, in the midst of some nonsense chatter about his time at one court or another. Geralt had immediately decided that him being Fae wasn't a bad thing. If anything, it was a good thing. He had noticed a few years back that Jaskier wasn’t aging like he should be, and the fact of that only made his want of the other man sharper. To think that he could have someone who wouldn't leave him because of the inescapable march of time. It was a rare thing.

It was a bad thing at the same time, not even because of all the reasons he’s already thought of, but because Jaskier will never want him, not like that. No matter how kind he is, no matter how much he seems like he might be willing to be that for Geralt, no matter how many times Geralt had imagined it in his head, it just wasn’t true. But he loves him so much. So much that it hurts.

Something changes in Jaskier’s eyes then, and his mouth twists just a bit before relaxing. He smiles gently, and when he moves forward, Geralt nearly jumps from the tub. He isn’t reaching for Geralt though. He simply rests his arms on the edge of the wooden tub, sleeves pushed back from his forearms to avoid getting the fine fabric wet. He’s grinning widely, teeth gleaming in the candlelight. What he says is… not expected. Which is an understatement.

“Fucking _finally_. I had wondered if you had ever imagined what it would be like to be loved by me before. I had hoped for it.”

Geralt is struck silent, which is fully expected. He struggles with the words, as he so often does, but manages one.

“Jask—” before Jaskier interrupts him.

“Oh, I truly didn’t know, until just now. When I saw it in your eyes."

“Yes,” says Geralt dumbly.

“I am sorry, about looking when I said I wouldn’t. It wasn’t on purpose, but when you opened your eyes and I saw, I couldn’t look away.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. Nor does he ask about how Jaskier feels. His mind is reeling, panicking. He feels exposed like he only has a handful of times before in his long life. Then Jaskier is speaking again. It saves Geralt from having to, so he listens well.

“I thought you were being so odd because you had changed your mind about traveling with one of the Fae.” His hands are expressive, twisting together erratically with anxiety.

“No. I’ve been acting odd?” he blurts.

“Of course dear,” Jaskier laughs. “Even before I told you about my gift. I thought it must have been me. I couldn’t fathom why.”

Of course it wasn’t. He hunts monsters, and the fair folk don’t fall under that category, no matter how mischievous or ill-behaved. Certainly not Jaskier.

“I thought you were preparing to drive me off,” Jaskier whispers.

“I would never. Never. I...” _love you_.

“You love me.”

Jaskier finishes the sentence out loud, a gleam in his eyes which for the first time ever, he can’t quite seem to place. Geralt doesn’t stop to decipher it, plowing ahead. “But you don’t love me back, I know that. You can’t, not really,” he says with a sardonic chuckle.

Jaskier’s forehead scrunches up at that. “Why not?”

“Because… because I’m me.” _Monstrous, ugly, not worth it._

He frowns as though he can see those feelings, which he can. He doesn’t address them directly though. “Well, exactly. You’re you. Which is why I do. Love you, that is. I’ve been by your side for years now Geralt. Why wouldn’t I? I’ve been taking good care of you all this time, haven’t I?” Jaskier questions.

It’s hard to believe, but he sounds so earnest when he tells Geralt he loves him, and he _does_ take good care of Geralt. Better than anyone. Geralt himself has never been particularly good at voicing his emotions, and this is no different. He chokes on the words he wants to say to Jaskier, foolish flowery words of affection. Words that, despite being much better suited to the bard, roam around inside his head searching for a way out. Instead he says,

“You shouldn’t. I don’t deserve it.”

“Bullshit. I’ll list off all the reasons I should, if I must,” he sighs dramatically.

“Don’t fucking—”

“Too late! You have beautiful eyes, you’re strong, you help people, even when you say you won’t, even when they don’t deserve your help, you rid the world of frightening monsters, you care about me— I see that pissy look Geralt, don’t you try to deny it.”

“ _Stop!_ ”

He’s nearly yelling now, but he doesn’t care. If he hears anymore, he’ll do something stupid, like let Jaskier love him in spite of all the risks. He digs his nails into the wood to stop himself from doing a childish thing, like covering his ears with his hands. He nearly does it anyway when Jaskier places his hand over one of Geralt’s, stroking his fingers across the back of it softly, at first just whispering comforting nonsense.

“I’ll stop, if you insist. But I do love you, and now that I know you feel the same, I won’t lie about it. I’ve been doing that for far too long.”

“You… how long?”

“Oh, try since I first met you,” Jaskier says with false nonchalance , his twitching fingers and averted eyes giving away his embarrassment.

Geralt experiences a momentary brain malfunction. Since Posada? he thinks slowly. He’s brought back quickly by calloused fingertips moving from his hand and brushing against his face. He nearly flinches away, but it feels too good. Jaskier is gentle to him, careful like people rarely bother to be.

“Why?” he demands, disbelief colouring his voice. The fingers stay, stroking with care.

“Well, you were—” a drawn out sigh. “You were good. You cared about the suffering of the elves, and you tried to protect me even before we were friends. You were so brave, so prepared to die. You were the kind of man I thought I would never meet. Flawed, and smelling of onion, yes. But just so good. What’s not to love?”

Geralt takes in a sharp breath, saying nothing. He doesn’t need to, he supposes, when Jaskier brings the hand down from his face, and takes Geralt’s hand in his. He’s reluctant at first, to release the tub, but he relents. Jaskier leans down, and when his lips meet Geralt’s rough hand, it spurs him to speak.

“You really love me?” he asks hopelessly. Gods does he want it to be true.

“Really really. Some might say too much, but I say they’re wrong. You’re worth all of my love.”

In a single swift maneuver, he’s pulled Jaskier into the tub, sputtering and squealing about his expensive clothing getting wet. He presses a finger to Jaskier’s lips to silence him. He supposes he’s doing the stupid thing, then. It may go to shit later, but here with Jaskier, everything is happening in the now.

“I’ll get you new ones,” he promises.

He seals that promise with a kiss, and Jaskier kisses him back with great enthusiasm and zero hesitation. He kisses just like Geralt imagined he would, with an entirely unsurprising amount of tongue, but also unlike he thought he would. He takes it slow where Geralt thought he would be fast, and he’s very touchy. So touchy that Geralt is hard again. Perhaps none of this is really a surprise. Or perhaps he just never thought Jaskier would touch him like this, with want.

They pull apart, regrettably, but only for Jaskier to say, “Well. I don’t know about you, but I think I should get out these wet clothes. For my health, naturally. Never good, you know, to stay in wet clothes.”

“Of course,” he grins, finally looking Jaskier in the eyes without worry. He knows that wet clothes aren’t likely to make him ill. “For your health.”

And if water spills all over the floor as a result of the vigorous fucking that follows in the bathtub, who could blame them?

* * *

A long while later, only an hour or so before the sun is set to rise are they finally sated. Well, not really. Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever be sated. He thinks that he could hold Jaskier against him, be in him forever. He’d had to carry Jaskier out of the tub to the bed for round two and three, eventually forced to stop when the bard could take no more. Now hands rove lovingly over tired bodies, and they hold each other as close as they can, skin glistening with sweat. There’s no further intent beyond just feeling each other, and Geralt takes in Jaskier’s scent every chance he gets.

Something comes to Geralt then, as they rest. He could hardly believe he was still awake after both the contract and bedding Jaskier, but he was. And he had to ask.

“When you say you could see the love in my eyes...”

“Did I mean that I could see inside your head? No, not quite. I suppose I didn’t explain this very well the first time around. I can see some emotions very well, when I look into someone’s eyes, but that is as far as my abilities go regarding the mind. Your thoughts are your own.”

Geralt can hardly believe he’s never seen how well Jaskier knows him, let alone how much he loves him. He puts the regret at not knowing behind him, puts his own feelings of inadequacy away, and lets himself feel relief at last. He wonders instead what other powers Jaskier had hidden from him, until Jaskier continues with,

“You were so full of love when I looked into your eyes. It was spilling out like tears, darling.” There’s sweet laughter in his voice, and that gleam in his eyes which Geralt identifies as joy.

“You’re insufferable,” he huffs. “Not wrong though. I do. Love you.” The words don’t come easily, but Jaskier deserves to hear them.

“I love you too. And I’m all yours.”

Geralt practically melts into Jaskier at those words, a first for him. He doesn’t sleep yet though. He has one more thing to ask.

“Can I see?”

Jaskier freezes. “Can you see what?”

“You. Without the glamour on. I’ve never seen you without it.”

“I suppose…”

He sits up then, shuffling back a bit. He closes his eyes, and his face scrunches up oh so slightly with effort. The glamour falls away, as though a layer of clothing has been removed. Oh, Geralt thinks to himself. Jaskier is somehow even more beautiful. His eyes are even more vibrant than he thought possible, and in the candlelight his skin seems to shimmer like water beneath the sun. His ears end in delicate points, which peek out from his smooth brown hair. Any flaws of age that were on his face have vanished entirely.  
.  
“So… is this okay?” Jaskier asks, his hands clenching his lush thighs tightly.

In a swift movement, Geralt has Jaskier under him again, arms encasing the gorgeous man.

“More than,” he mutters into Jaskier’s neck, leaving behind soft kisses.

“Oh! Good, I wasn’t sure what you would think.” Jaskier’s nervousness is practically palpable in the air, so Geralt dissuades him of his worries. He’s not great at words, but he manages to tell Jaskier how beautiful he is. They lay down together properly again, whispering things to each other, things Geralt never thought they would.

When they’re near sleep, Jaskier once again begins running his hand through Geralt’s hair, this time just because he can. Geralt thinks to himself that he could get used to someone being his.

Perhaps, he could even deserve it.

**Author's Note:**

> I accept and appreciate all constructive criticisms, and I hope you all enjoyed this.
> 
> title comes from Hozier's 'Talk'


End file.
